


No Better to Be Safe Than Sorry

by RogueBelle



Series: Afterwards [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle of King’s Landing, Character Death, Execution, Explicit Language, F/M, Introspection, Post-Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Suicidal Thoughts, cw: suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: The next steps after Jaime Lannister leaves Winterfell. Jaime looks at his life and his choices as he rides south. Sansa uses her powers of manipulation for good rather than evil. Brienne doesn't want to think about anything at all.~‘Maybe the dead got me after all. Maybe the dead dream of living, and that’s what I’ve been doing these past weeks.’For to be certain, he is haunted by blue eyes.





	1. Stumbling Away

**Author's Note:**

> Just me breaking my own heart here. I feel for Jaime, a lot, and I very much need to believe that he's doing dumb things for the right reasons which will somehow sort themselves out.
> 
> Drawing off events from the show, obviously, but pulling in some book backstory.
> 
> You can blame the season finale of The Magicians for convincing me that "Take On Me" is a mournful and bittersweet song, but seriously, listen to a downtempo cover and it'll freaking wreck you.

 

 

 _So, needless to say_  
_I'm odds and ends, but I'll be_  
_Stumbling away_

 

*

 

_‘You shouldn’t have looked at her.’_

Jaime Lannister rides alone through the vast expanse of the North, beneath the unforgiving eye of the white winter sun. He should stop and rest. He’s already changed horses, at a posting station Jon Snow’s army left in its wake. There will be more. He could rest at one of them. He _should_ rest, but he doesn’t feel tired. He’s too numb to feel tired, to feel anything. _‘Maybe the dead got me after all. Maybe the dead dream of living, and that’s what I’ve been doing these past weeks.’_

For to be certain, he is haunted by blue eyes.

_‘You shouldn’t have looked, damn you.’_

He’d tried not to. He’d tried to slip away, so that he wouldn’t have to see the pain in those beautiful sapphires. But he should have known. Brienne sleeps so lightly, he’s had opportunity to learn that. All that time traveling on dangerous roads. Of course she heard him go. Of course she got up and came out to confront him. _‘And of course you couldn’t get your damn horse saddled any faster.’_

Jaime tried not to look her in the eyes, tried to look anywhere else. But when she reached for him, a boldness built of the intimacy of the past few weeks -- gods, he can still feel her fingers, cupping his face -- he was lost.

The pain in her eyes wasn’t the worst thing, he’s decided. And he’s had plenty of time to think about it. The road from Winterfell is as fucking long as ever. No, it wasn’t the pain, not the reproach. Not even the tears. The worst thing Jaime saw in her eyes was the _faith_.

Faith that he was trying to do something noble. Faith that he is a good man, as she swore to Sansa Stark. Faith in some light inside him only she could see.

Faith he knows he doesn’t deserve, could never be worthy of.

Brienne has always been solid as a slate of marble. It aggravated him, when first they met, this implacable monolith of a woman, so set in her naive ideals of honor and valor. Now it seems almost holy. The greatest virtues of the Warrior, and none of the vices, wrapped up in a woman whose strength and strange grace take his breath away.

And Jaime knows what he is. A broken thing, all jagged edges, impossible to fit back together, and certain to slice up anyone foolish enough to come close.

 _‘How could she be fool enough to place her faith in_ _that_ _?’_ If she has a flaw, he supposes, it’s naivete. Despite all she’s been through, all she’s seen, she still wants to believe in the good in others. In _him_ , of all the fucking people in the realm.

He had to remind her of his crimes. If she’s chosen to see past them, certainly no one else has. Jaime saw the eyes following him at Winterfell. Sansa Stark’s tolerance, extended on Brienne’s behalf, guaranteed his safety, but no more. All the men who might think well of him for his efforts in the battle have marched south with Jon Snow or sailed with the Dragon Queen or fucked off back north with the ginger wildling maniac; those left in Winterfell are largely those who were supposed to be kept out of the way of battle. They don’t know what he did. To them, he’s an unanswered question, a man of suspect allegiance. Brienne may see a man of honor, who fought at her side, but everyone else sees a man drenched in blood so thoroughly he could never wash clean.

_‘Everyone else sees truly.’_

It was nice to pretend, for a little while, that he could be a hero, just as he’d wanted to be so many years ago, when he had worshipped Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and the other glorious knights of the realm. For a night, he had reclaimed the dream of his youth. Fighting for the living made you at least a _bit_ of a hero, by definition. If he had died in that battle, perhaps that was how he would be remembered.

_‘You should have died in that battle.’_

No.

Yes.

If he had died in that battle, he would never have had these weeks with Brienne. Never known what her skin tastes like, never felt her curl around him in the hazy light of morning. Never have risked polluting her with his presence, never given anyone in Winterfell cause to look askance at her or question her judgment.

 _‘If I had died in that battle, she would remember me as a hero. Wouldn’t that be better? Better than that I live, and she come to realize what a terrible mistake she made by ever having_ _faith_ _in me?’_

Yes.

No.

But he’s alive, and there must be a reason. The gods didn’t spare him to reward him with the bliss he found in Brienne’s arms. He stole that, a respite he didn't deserve and could hold for only too brief a time. _‘And the gods reminded you why it wasn’t yours, why it could never be yours.’_

Cersei’s crimes, and his complicity.

_‘I wonder who I would have been, without her.’_

Pointless. Cersei has always been inevitable, their fates fused together from the moment they entered the world. Jaime has no idea what his life would be, had his sister not had the shaping of it.

Pointless to wonder, and hard not to, now. _‘I would have liked to have met that man.’_ That man might have really been a hero. He still wouldn’t be worthy of Brienne of Tarth, but he might have come closer.

_‘You shouldn’t have looked in her eyes.’_

Not just last night. He should never have allowed Brienne of Tarth to become interesting to him, should never have looked twice. _‘The best you could ever offer her was shame and the contempt of her fellows. And you might well have dragged her into danger. If Cersei found out…’_

He thinks of crossbow bolts, fired in the dark.

_‘No.’_

That, he can not allow.

He’s not even sure what he’s going to do. _‘How could the stupidest Lannister have any sort of a plan?’_ And he needs more information than Sansa’s raven provided -- or at least more than she was willing to share from it. He needs the lay of the land. Seven hells, he may arrive and find King’s Landing already a smoking wreck.

He doesn’t think so, though. _‘Fate will wait for me to arrive.’_ Cersei’s inevitability, drawing him back once again.

Not to save her, not this time. She’s beyond that, he knew it when he left. Anything good in her died with Tommen, and he’s not sure even another child could bring her back from the edge she’s driven herself to. _‘If it even exists.’_ He’s starting to have doubts. Cersei’s recklessness in taunting the Dragon Queen strikes an odd chord. She can't be saved, but maybe she can be checked. Maybe that can be the last damned thing he does, one last cut in a life built of betrayals.

_‘“You’re a good man, and you can’t save her. You don’t need to die with her.”’_

Even in such a moment, Brienne assigned him honorable intentions. That faith of hers couldn’t imagine anything else. _‘Damn foolish woman.’_ This isn’t about saving Cersei. It might be about saving King’s Landing. _‘Even if you have to do it… as you did before.’_ It might be about making sure Cersei knows just what she’s lost, before the end.

Whatever he does, it won’t be atonement. _‘There was never going to be, Kingslayer, not for you. No redemption. You have never been worthy of that, any more than you were worthy of Brienne’s regard.’_ But it might be a chance to dam up the flood of ruination.

Jaime Lannister rides south, alone.

 

*

 

“You have to let her go.”

Sansa glances to see Bran -- or whatever is currently inhabiting his body, because she’s far from sure that’s still her brother in there, even if she doesn’t quite understand all that’s happened to him -- gazing at her with the same empty stare he’s had ever since returning to Winterfell. It’s almost as unnerving as his new habit of plucking thoughts out of people’s heads.

Then again, it can’t be that hard to figure out that she’s worried about Brienne. The woman’s become like a walking statue ever since Jaime Lannister -- _‘May the old gods visit painful retribution upon him’_ \-- fled Winterfell like a thief in the night. Not that Sansa has found any fault with her service in the past two days. If anything, Brienne is more precise, more attentive than ever. She was never talkative, but now it’s more than silence. It’s as if something inside her went away, leaving an extraordinarily well-trained shell behind. The warm glow that Sansa had seen in her these past weeks has disappeared, and Sansa mourns it, even if she had never been entirely comfortable with its apparent inspiration. _‘Brienne has known pain and terror and horrors, too, but she was still capable of hope and faith.’_

Sansa envies her that.

Or did, before she had to watch that shining light snuffed out between dusk of one day and dawn of the next.

And now here’s Bran, telling her to turn Brienne loose -- when the woman’s entire life is defined by service, to a degree that staggers Sansa with its devotion.

“What do you mean?” she asks, wondering if she’s going to get a straight answer or an assembly of vague prophecies.

“She needs to go south. You need to let her.”

“ _Why_ must she go south?” She can hear the testiness in her voice. Sansa loves her brother, but without Jon and Arya here to balance things, it’s harder to remain patient with him.

“For the fight,” Bran says, in the same dull tone that seems to be his only register these days. “And for him.”

Sansa’s face hardens. She can feel her upper lip curling in distaste. “You’re not serious.” No response. “Jaime Lannister _betrayed_ her,” she says, in a voice as cold and sure as ice. “She vouched for him, she fought beside him, she _trusted_ him, and then he lay with her, and he _abandoned_ her.”

Even as she says it, though, there’s something that doesn’t quite add up.

Bran picks up on that thought, too. “He didn’t betray her,” he says. “His love for his sister is long cold.”

“Then why is he running home to her?”

Bran doesn’t answer, but Sansa’s already spinning answers to her own question. If he’s not running to join her, he must be running to fight against her. But then why not have gone south with his brother or with Jon’s army in the first place?

_‘She would have gone with him. And he doesn’t want her in danger.’_

And Sansa supposes she can understand that. Brienne may well be among the fiercest warriors of the Seven Kingdoms. A man might be considered stupid, for thinking he needed to protect her, someone who faced down the army of the dead.

But Cersei Lannister may be even more dangerous than wights and Walkers. _‘A man could be forgiven for wanting to protect the woman he loves from that, no matter how capable she is.’_

She pinches the bridge of her nose. _‘Gods. Does he? Are you willing to allow that possibility?'_

Sansa looks to Bran, whose head has tilted slightly to the side, as though he's watching her mind piece these thoughts together.  _'He hasn't been wrong yet. If he thinks Jaime Lannister has somehow stayed true, if he thinks Brienne needs to be in King's Landing...'_

Whatever else he was, Bran was still her brother. And Sansa trusted his judgment.

“I can’t just release Ser Brienne from my service,” Sansa says, after a moment. “It would be cruel to her, for one thing. She’s done nothing to deserve dismissal.” She allows herself a small smile. “And, stubborn woman that she is, I expect it would engender a _great_ deal of argument. So if I cannot dismiss her, then I must order her.”

 

*

 

“My sister has disappeared,” Sansa says. “I believe she is headed for King’s Landing. She didn’t leave with the army, but…” Sansa presses her lips thin. “She wants Cersei Lannister dead as much as I do, so where else would she go? I would like for you to go and find her.”

Brienne’s face registers confusion, creasing at the corners of her eyes -- the first emotion Sansa’s seen in two days. _‘Well, that’s something.’_

“My lady,” Brienne says, hesitant, “I am sworn to protect you. I’ve stayed at Winterfell to protect you.”

“Fortunately, I seem in little need of protection at the moment,” Sansa replies, giving a small smile. “Winterfell is safer than it has been since I was a child. We have no enemies within a thousand miles. And you are sworn to serve _both_ the daughters of Catelyn Stark, are you not?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then one Stark daughter is ordering you to locate the other. You serve us both in this.”

Brienne’s voice is tinged with suspicion. “My lady, the last time I located your sister, she

“She knows you now,” Sansa points out.

Brienne’s head tilts a bit. “I… don’t think that will make her any more amenable to being summoned back to Winterfell.”

“No,” Sansa concedes. “I don’t imagine she would allow you to drag you back by her ear. And in truth, she’s a woman grown now and clearly capable of looking after herself. But since she is determined to tear off into danger, I would…” Sansa drops her eyes and lets her voice shake a bit. The emotions are _real_ , she isn’t _lying_ . But she has learned how to use her feelings as a tool. “Ser Brienne, if my sister dies in King’s Landing, I don’t want to hear about it from a list of the dead sent by raven. I don’t want rumor to reach me. I-I had rather hear it from someone I trust.” She flicks her eyes back up again. Brienne’s face is so earnest, radiating such devotion, that Sansa _almost_ feels a twinge of guilt, for manipulating her so. “From a friend, Brienne.”

Brienne gives a small nod. “Of course, my lady.”

Sansa makes a great show of mastering herself, drawing her shoulders back and her chin up. “So I charge you, Ser Brienne of Tarth, to go south and find my sister, so that I may know her fate, whatever it is.” Her next words hang on her tongue a moment. “And along the way, I shall expect you to remember what a knight of the Seven Kingdoms owes to the realm. Do not neglect your duties to the Warrior, the Father, and the Mother, even as you seek Arya.”

Brienne’s jaw works, her chin trembling just a bit. _‘That’s her tell,’_ Sansa thinks. _‘That’s where you can see the emotions she won’t voice.’_

Sansa reaches out and takes Brienne’s hand. She can feel the strength of those fingers, even through the gloves. “Do what you can, Brienne,” she says, knowing full well that the words will emblazon themselves on Brienne’s soul, “to make things right. And then return home.”

 

*

 

Podrick is quiet as they saddle horses for the journey. He works so swiftly now. Much better than when she first--

Brienne has to slam down hard on that thought. Remembering how Podrick came to her service means remembering the man responsible for that, and for two days, Brienne has simply refused.

“May be hard to catch up with Lady Arya before she reaches King’s Landing,” Podrick comments as he straps the last of the supply bags to his rouncey. True. No one’s quite sure how much of a head start she got. Her habit of prowling around Winterfell and rarely turning up for meals means that it’s hard to pin down when she was last seen, but it’s been a week or more.

Brienne says nothing, but swings up into her saddle. Podrick does the same.

“Maybe,” he says, once they’re a little ways out of Winterfell’s gate, “maybe she’ll catch up with her brother’s army, and we’ll find her there.”

Unlikely, Brienne thinks. If Arya wanted to fight with the army, she’d have left in their company. Why stay behind only to join the fight later, if you’re--

Another thought to cut off before it can complete itself.

A few miles down the road, Podrick tries again. “Or maybe she’ll at least have passed through. Maybe Lord Snow can point us in the right direction.”

Then, a little later, “Or maybe we could stay with the army. Lady Sansa did say -- I mean, she did want us to do what we could, to help the fight. And if Lady Arya has gone into King’s Landing -- I’m sure she has her ways to get in unseen, but you and I--”

“We’ll find a way.”

Podrick’s head snaps towards her. Brienne surmises he wasn’t really expecting an answer. Her voice almost creaks, she’s used it so little the past few days. _‘Raw from crying, ever since--’_

Her fingers clench, and she tries to cover for it by re-wrapping her reins. _‘No. Of all the things you will not think about, that is most certainly -- Just, no.’_

Pointless to think about it, and good to have a task, something to focus on. Searching for Arya is familiar territory, and the journey will be easier this time, with Cersei’s forces withdrawn out of the Riverlands. They’ll reach King’s Landing, and then-- and then--

No way to stop the thought this time. Jaime Lannister is in King's Landing, and even if she's there searching for Arya, she knows, somehow, that it's him she'll find. They've found each other so many times before, in such improbable places. Something about it seems inevitable.

She looks to the side and tries to give Pod a reassuring smile, though she’s certain it falls short of the mark. “We’ll figure something out, Pod.”

“Of course, Ser,” he says, and she can see in his eyes a shining faith. “You always do.”

 

*

 

 _You’re all the things I’ve got to remember_  
_Shying away  
I’ll be coming for you anyway_


	2. The Things That You Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journeys south continue as the winds of winter kick up impediments. Jaime finds assistance he didn't know to look for. Brienne receives support she didn't know she needed.  
> ~  
>  _What is it with the damn Starks and looking at you like they can see all your sins?’ Then again, his are written plainly enough as to not need much scrutiny. ___

 

 

_Oh, the things that you say_  
_Yeah, is it a life or just to play_  
_My worries away?_

 

*

 

When a knife comes down into the table an inch from Jaime’s hand, he thinks it isn’t entirely unexpected. If he’s surprised at anything, it’s that the blade doesn’t come down into his back. Encouraging, that.

He’s been avoiding inns for most of the journey south. He’s not as golden as he used to be, bearded and greying and dimmed by winter, but the damn hand is still a giveaway. He could be recognized, and recognition could mean a delay. He knows how to sleep in the saddle, and he brought enough provisions to see him most of the way to King’s Landing.

Eventually, though, he had to stop. He chose a tiny place, off the main road, hoping it would be little-traveled. It must’ve taken a hit during the wars; it looks like the owners are half in the process of rebuilding it. But they had wine and meat and didn’t ask any questions.

He’s made good time. No winter storms have whipped up to impede him; no one at Snow’s posting stations has been inconveniently inquisitive. But when that blade slams down in front of him, Jaime fears his luck has turned.

He squints at the blade. _‘That’s can’t be Valyr--’_

He looks up -- and does not see the face he expected. In fact, it’s no one he’s ever seen before. A woman in her thirties or so, with ashy brown hair and wide cheeks. “Your pardon, madam,” he says, carefully, “if I’ve taken your seat.”

“No. Just wanted to talk.”

Jaime’s eyebrows curve upward. “Then I’m afraid I must ask your name -- and how you came by that dagger.”

“It’s me, Ser Jaime,” the woman replies. “Arya Stark.” She nods at the blade. “To prove it.”

Jaime glances down, hardly daring to take his eyes off of the person before him. A second glance confirms what he first thought. That blade is famous, now. The steel that pierced the Night King and brought him down.

He looks up again. “You are _not_ Arya Stark.”

The woman’s regard is cool and even, reminding him, if anything, more of Sansa Stark than her sister. After a moment, she says, “You came to Winterfell shortly before the battle. Queen Daenerys and my sister didn’t want to trust you. Brienne of Tarth spoke up on your behalf, which was good enough for Sansa.”

A dagger, indeed. Few recollections would have stabbed Jaime with quite such ruthless efficiency.

Jaime coughs, looking down at the table. “There were a few hundred people in the hall when that happened,” he challenges, even though he can feel his doubt already slipping. "That doesn't prove you are who you say you are."

The woman leans closer. “You spent the next three nights in Ser Brienne’s bed. More, probably, but I left Winterfell then, so I can’t be sure. Neither of you said anything about it in public, but on the second afternoon, when you both came in from exercising your horses, she took her glove off, and you snatched up her fingers and kissed them. I was standing in the gallery to the northwest, so I had quite a clear view.”

A knot clenches in Jaime’s stomach. _No one_ had been around to see that, or so he’d thought. He had been careful with Brienne, in public places, knowing how the folk of Winterfell would look at them. They hadn’t been keeping a secret, not precisely, but they hadn’t been openly demonstrative. But thinking they were alone in the courtyard, Jaime had not been able to resist indulging in a moment of affection. Simple and plain and so natural, a sweetness he had not deserved to steal.

Jaime inclines his head in a bit of a bow. “Lady Arya,” he says. “Forgive my… misapprehension.”

Her lips quirk slightly. “I spent too much of the war bouncing around this area,” she explains. “People might remember me. So I needed to pass unnoticed.”

Jaime nods as though this is normal, following the logic if not the method. “How--?”

But Arya shakes her head. “It would take too long to explain.”

Jaime closes his eyes briefly. “Very well.” A few weeks earlier, this would have been too strange to bear, but after fighting the army of the dead, very little seems beyond belief. Arya Stark can change her face. Sure. Why not? “What are you doing here?”

“Might ask you the same. Thought you were staying at Winterfell.”

They’re not Arya Stark’s eyes, but they have her intensity. The expression in them is not judgmental, precisely, but it’s certainly unforgiving. _‘What is it with the damn Starks and looking at you like they can see all your sins?’_ Then again, his are written plainly enough as to not need much scrutiny.

Jaime drops his gaze down to his cup. “Change of plans.” He takes a gulp of the wine. Not very good, but he can hardly expect Dornish in these circumstances. And he doesn’t think Dornish will ever taste so sweet again, anyway.

He can feel Arya still staring at him, unblinking. After a long moment, she settles onto the bench, yanking her dagger out of the table. “Us, too. Should’ve been in King’s Landing by now. _Days_ ago.” With that last, a hint of impatience comes into her voice, breaking the cold directness of her speech.

 _‘There’s still an eighteen-year-old girl in there somewhere,’_ Jaime thinks. All the Starks are strange, always have been. But this one, he thinks he could come to understand.

“Ran into some complications.” A heavier voice, accompanied by the thud of a massive tankard on the table beside him. “And had to settle some old debts.”

Jaime glances up and sideways. “Clegane.” He should have expected as much.

“So what the fuck _are_ you doing here?” Clegane growls, dragging a chair to the end of the table and leadenly falling into it. “Did you do something to offend Lady Sansa?” Jaime hears the heat of a threat in his tone. It disappears, though, when he continues: “Or did the Tarth bitch get tired of you and toss you out on your ass?”

It rises to his tongue to tell Clegane that if he ever refers to Ser Brienne so disrespectfully again, Jaime will tear off the other half of his face -- but he swallows the thought, along with another draught of wine. “The latter,” he says. “Ser Brienne wearied of the suspicion of the Northerners and sent me packing.”

_‘She would have. Should have.’_

“Lie.” This, from Arya, shot from her borrowed lips like a crossbow bolt. Jaime’s gaze snaps up to her defensively, but there’s no aggression on her face. Just steel-cold certainty.

“Fine,” Jaime snaps. “She didn’t send me packing. I left her. I never had any intention of staying--” He summons a mocking laugh, though it comes out dry and rattled. “I wanted to do her the credit of making it seem as though she were the one doing the jilting.”

“Lie.”

Jaime feels his blood heating. “What in the seven hells are you playing at, girl?”

A mischievous smirk answers him. “The Game of Faces,” she says, and the amusement in her tone, saying that while _wearing_ someone else’s face, sends a chill down Jaime’s spine. “You’re quite bad at it.”

_‘Mad. All the Starks are bloody mad.’_

Arya settles herself a bit on the bench. “We’re going to kill your sister.”

“ _You’re_ going to kill his sister,” Clegane grumbles. “I’ve got other business.”

“Your brother,” Jaime says. “Obviously.” Everyone in Westeros knows they hate each other. _‘Inevitable,’_ he thinks. _‘What is it about siblings and inevitabilities?’_ Then he looks at Arya. “You really think I’ll allow you to kill Cersei?”

For a second, it is a tempting thought. Walk away right now. Turn back north. Throw himself on his knees and beg Brienne’s forgiveness for his foolishness -- assuming that Sansa Stark doesn’t have him beheaded on sight. Assuming that Arya Stark lets him walk out of this inn. She’s twirling her dagger in all too casual a manner. But what a fine thing that could be. Let the Stark girl have her revenge. She deserves it. She could _do_ it. A girl who can sneak through a legion of the undead and stab their king could find her way into the Red Keep, he’s sure. _‘Come to think of it, why on earth didn’t Queen Daenerys and her advisers make that their plan in the first place?’_

He could let Arya Stark handle this for him.

But no. That would only be another way of turning aside from fate, another attempt to cheat the gods of whatever course they’ve doomed him to.

He takes another drink, draining the cup this time. He slams it upside down on the table, and leans forward towards this terrifying creature in front of him. “Cersei is _my_ responsibility.”

The dagger stops spinning, abruptly, the handle slapping into Arya’s palm. “ _Lie._ ”

“The hell she isn’t,” Jaime says, sudden fierceness overtaking him. “She is my burden to bear, and I will be damned if I abdicate that responsibility to a vengeful--”

“Girl?” she challenges.

“Northerner,” he finishes. He sighs. Every muscle in his body aches from days of ceaseless riding, and his mind feels even more exhausted. “I don’t blame you for wanting her dead. Truly, I don’t. You have more than reason enough. But I cannot allow you to kill her.”

“The cunt is marked for death, one way or another,” Clegane says. “You really think you can protect her from everyone?”

Jaime’s hand flexes, then folds into a fist. “What I _know_ ,” he says, “is what I owe. To her, to the realm, to myself.”

“And Lannisters always pay their debts,” Arya intones, without a hint of either mockery or malice. Jaime flinches anyway; that phrase was the cloak that covered the slaughter of the Red Wedding. “Alright,” she continues. “Let’s say I decide to give you a chance at her. How are you planning to get to her?”

“There are tunnels beneath the Red Keep.” He doesn’t know why he says it, except perhaps that he’s just too bloody tired to guard his tongue. “It’s how I helped my brother escape.”

Arya nods, reaching for the pitcher. She fills her own cup, then rights his and replenishes it. “I’m familiar with them,” she says. “I spent a lot of time exploring King’s Landing. That was my plan, too.” She pushes his cup towards him. “It might work.” Another beat, then: “Travel with us,” Arya offers, and it surprises him.

Jaime shakes his head slowly. “You don’t mean that. You have no idea what I intend.”

“Li--”

“Girl, I swear to fuck, if you say that again--” Clegane bites out in the same instant.

Arya smirks at him before looking back to Jaime. “We’re not enemies,” she said. “Maybe we were, once, but --” She jerks her head at Clegane. “If I can get past it with this old shit, I can certainly manage it with you. You were never even on my list.” Jaime doesn’t ask, as he’s sure he’s happier not knowing. “We both know those tunnels, but we may know different things about them. Why not help each other? And whoever gets to Cersei first will get to pay their debt.”

Jaime wishes he could see the girl’s real face right now. Even if it didn’t actually help him gauge her truthfulness any better, it would at least _feel_ less… eerie.

“I’ve been riding hard,” he says. “I didn’t intend to stay here more than an hour. I won’t slow my pace for anyone.”

Arya nods. “I wouldn’t expect you to. And we’re out of time. Jon’s army is almost at the gates.”

“Storms are coming,” Clegane says. “Might slow them up.”

“Might slow _us_ up,” Jaime points out.

“Nothing else is getting in my way,” Arya says, quite factually.

This girl is at least half a madwoman, Jaime’s convinced. That’s a debt on the Lannister account, too. Whatever happened to her in the past seven years, it was because of Lannisters. And Jaime knows what it is, to make steel out of yourself to avoid breaking. _‘A strange girl. But if she wanted me dead, I would be. So why not? She won’t make it to Cersei first. You will. Inevitable.’_

So Jaime extends his left hand towards her, and with a bit of a smile, Arya clasps it.

“Who knows?” Clegane says. “Enough people hate her. By the time we get there, you two cunts might have to get in line.”

 

*

 

A lucky wind helps Brienne and Podrick on their journey. There are storms to the south; Brienne can see them, keeps thinking they’re going to ride right into them. Sometimes they do hit a bit of snow, but not enough to slow them down. Nothing like the blizzard that accompanied the Long Night, certainly. _‘But if it’s worse to the south, that will slow Jon down,’_ she thinks. _‘You can’t move an army in this weather, particularly not when half of them are used to the heat of Essos. And you certainly can’t attack in it.’_

She’s glad for it. More time for Brienne to catch up with her quarry. More time for the opposing sides to consider negotiation, rather than mutual annihilation.

She’s not following Jaime, she’s _not_ , and yet she is all too aware that she’s following in his footsteps. The posting stations Jon Snow left in his wake have been helpful, but at the very first, she found Jaime’s horse, nickering in recognition. She spared a pat for the beast, but was glad to find two other horses for her and Podrick to take onward. Destriers are no good for traveling at the speed they’re hoping for, anyway. At every station thereafter, she has to wonder if she’s inadvertently riding the same horse Jaime rode two days earlier.

She does not ask after him, but at the third station, she catches Podrick in the act of doing so. Not by name. Pod just asks if anyone else has passed by going south. Brienne glares at him when she overhears, but, despite his ducked head and shamed blush, he keeps asking, each time they change horses. Some of the men knew Jaime on sight; others only said that, yes, there had been a man, two days earlier, riding hell-for-leather, never stopping to sleep or eat.

Brienne doesn’t know how to feel about that. She should be glad, she knows, not to overtake him. If she did, she doesn’t know what she’d do. But that he’s riding so swiftly to return to Cersei just adds further insult to the injury.

But she doesn’t want to think about that, so she pretends not to hear Podrick, and tries not to wonder why her squire keeps asking the question.

And then, a day’s ride out from King’s Landing, a storm finally forces them to stop.

They take shelter in an abandoned house, one of many along the Kingsroad. Someone’s already pillaged it of most useful items, including mattresses and blankets, but they have their bedrolls and blankets, and within a few minutes, those are set up before a roaring fire. Brienne’s tired enough that she doesn’t mind letting Podrick help remove her armor. _‘Such fine armor.’_ It fit perfectly the first time she put it on, and she always wondered _how_ he managed it--

Another thought to clang closed, as swiftly as possible.

 _‘You can’t keep doing that forever,’_ she tells herself. There’s too much to shut it all out. Her armor, her sword, his gifts. Her squire, her knighthood, his bestowments. Even her own body doesn’t seem entirely hers anymore. It’s too easy to remember the feel of his hand and lips on her skin. To recall how he made this body feel not just strong and useful, but graceful, admirable. Jaime Lannister changed her, irrevocably. Excising him from her mind entirely is something that simply will not happen, no matter how she tries.

She can sense that Podrick is about to start in on her before he says anything. It’s happened before, after she battled the Hound and lost Arya Stark. She nearly bit his head off, then.

Much has changed.

“Ser?” Podrick begins, and he’s taking an unnaturally long time with his bootlaces. An excuse not to look her in the eye, she suspects.

“What is it, Pod?”

“Ser, can I ask--? Why did--Why did Ser Jaime leave?”

Brienne doesn’t think she’d answer the question if it came from anyone else. Even Lady Sansa didn’t ask. Everyone just _assumed_ . He’s a Lannister. Of course he betrayed them. Of course he betrayed _her_. The Northerners’ easy acceptance of that fact hurt almost as much as his leaving.

She doesn’t answer immediately. It’s too hard a thing to frame. But Podrick just sits there, glancing up at her from beneath his lashes, patient as a rock.

“He said he’d never run away from a fight,” she says, at length. “He said…” She feels a tightening in her chest, and a damnable prickle behind her eyes. Her throat works a moment before she can go on. “He said Cersei was hateful, and so was he.” Remembering his face in that moment, the utter hopelessness in his eyes, how lost and broken he looked, Brienne feels wetness in the corners of her eyes. “He told me about the worst things he’s done, and he said… He said everything he did was for Cersei, to get back to her.” She blinks, and the tears don’t fall, but she can feel them dewing her lashes. “He said it like nothing else in the world mattered. Like every action in his life has only ever had that purpose. Everything, for her. So he went back, for her.”

Podrick’s brow furrows thoughtfully for a moment, then he says, “Well, that’s horseshit.”

“Podrick!” She’s astonished to hear the vulgarity fall from his lips. At least it shocked her out of her threatening tears. “You have been spending too much time with Tyrion.” Never minding that he’s a man grown, and never minding that her own tongue is hardly as ladylike as her mother would once have preferred.

“Beg pardon, ser.” He’s red as a beet, and she expects he _is_ sorry. “But it is -- nonsense. You’ve told me -- you told me all about him, about your journey together.”

 _‘Not everything,’_ Brienne thinks. Podrick hadn’t needed to hear about the Harrenhal baths.

“And he told me stories, too.”

“ _When_?”

“Whenever he could, ser. In King’s Landing, when he brought me to your service. And then in Winterfell, before the battle. You’re-- I’m sorry, ser, but you’re all he wanted to talk about, really.” Now Brienne isn’t sure which one of them is blushing harder. “And the things he told me, and that you told me, and that Lord Tyrion told me -- he didn’t do those to get back to Cersei, or to please her. He didn’t jump in that bear pit to get back to her. He didn’t arm and armor you and send you to protect the girls she wants dead to please her.” Podrick finally seems to remember that he was pretending to unlace his boots. He jerks the strings a few times and tug ones off. “And, it’s-- it’s not all to do with you. He didn’t free Lord Tyrion to make his sister happy.”

“I _told_ him that he’s a good man,” Brienne says. The thumping of Podrick’s other boot covers the crack in her voice. “But if he’s determined not to--”

“I just don’t think,” Podrick says, “that a man who did all that would run all the way up to Winterfell for y--” He cuts himself off awkwardly. “For the sake of being the only southroner on-hand to fight for the living, and then run back to protect a woman who probably wants him dead.” He rubs at his forehead with one hand. “And I know I’m no great strategist, but seems to me he didn’t feel a pressing need to be there until he heard she might be winning. Strange time to go protect someone.”

Brienne’s brow creases. “He heard that Daenerys Targaryen is about to light King’s Landing on fire.” Although that doesn’t quite make sense, either. The message Sansa received described a queen quite unlike the one Brienne had observed in Winterfell.

“He heard that Cersei felled a dragon and took the queen’s most cherished companion hostage,” Podrick points out.

Brienne doesn’t know what to say to that. She can’t reconcile Jaime’s actions with his words. She can’t square the man who was ready to stay in Winterfell with her -- in Winterfell, where he was treated with wary caution, if not outright hated -- with the man who saddled a horse in the middle of the night. She wants to think he has some purpose that would make sense of it all. _‘But then why not tell me? Why not trust me with it?’_

She lays down on the bedroll, drawing her blanket up. Podrick seems to take the hint, settling himself down as well.

They listen to the crackling fire and the howling wind for a few moments, before Podrick says. “You didn’t make a poor choice, ser. You care for him, and I believe he cares for you, so it wasn't... it wasn't a bad decision, to take up with him."

How did he know, the stick she'd been beating herself with? Feeling foolish for having trusted him, for having allowed him to burrow into her heart. So many years of keeping her defenses up, and it was Jaime Lannister she let inside. Who could be such an idiot? But here was Podrick, cutting to the bone of it.  _'When did my little squire get so wise?'_

He continues: "I don’t know how it all fits together, but… You’re right. Ser Jaime _is_ a good man. That much, I’m sure of.”

Brienne closes her eyes. She can still see the orange light of the fire. “How could you possibly know, Pod?” she asks, without the exasperation she might once have given her squire. No, this question is raw and genuine.

“No man who looks at you the way he does could be aught else.”

 

*


	3. Another Day to Find You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are made and plotlines re-collide, as certain inevitabilities draw nearer.
> 
> \--  
>  _“You could never have stopped her,” Arya says. “And you’re not going to save her.”_  
>  _‘You're a good man and you can't save her. You don't need to die with her.’_  
>  _Jaime winces. He needs the past to stop its bell-like echoes in his head so he can focus on the present. And he needs Ned Stark’s daughter to stop needling him. “You don’t know what I’m going to do.”_  
>  _She can’t, because Jaime still doesn’t know himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying very hard to finish this before tonight's episode, whatever it brings. Who else is ricocheting violently between hope and despair?
> 
> (Also couldn't resist slipping in another Shakespeare quote, because I'm me).

 

 _I don't know what I'm to say_  
_I'll say it anyway_  
_Today is another day to find you_

 

*

 

They wait for dusk to enter the tunnel.

The snows gave way that morning, and though the skies are still grey, there’s a clear line of sight from the Greyjoy ships to the stretch of beach with the tunnel’s entrance. Perhaps they could slip across from the treeline without being seen, but they decide not to risk it. Jaime and Arya are waiting under the heavy-bowed trees, their horses tethered nearby. Clegane has stomped off somewhere. _‘Pre-fratricide brooding,’_ Jaime thinks.

At least it won’t be long to wait. The days are so short now. The sun will set, they’ll enter the tunnels, and then --

_‘And then I will discover what I do next.’_

Cersei accused him once of never thinking before he acted. Perhaps it’s true. But there are worse ways to be. He’s never been consumed with plots and schemes, like half the nobles of Westeros. Like her.

“She _isn’t_ your responsibility, you know,” Arya says, quietly. She’s leaning against a tree trunk her arms folded across her chest. Her voice sounds less detached than it did at the inn, and now that she’s wearing her own face again, her eyes look a bit softer.

“She is,” Jaime insists. “Of course I’m responsible for her. Who else is there?”

Arya turns to look at him, with an expression that more-than-faintly suggests she believes she’s talking to an imbecile. “ _Her._ ” When he only stares at her in response, she rolls her eyes. “I watched Cersei when I was in King’s Landing. I’ve listened to so many people talk about her -- and Sansa has a _lot_ to say on the topic.” Yes, Jaime imagines she would. “Nothing that I’ve seen or that anyone has said has ever given me the impression that anyone ever forced Cersei to do anything, nor kept her from doing precisely as she pleased.”

“I could have tried harder,” Jaime protests, scuffing his boot into the wet snow. “I could have tempered her.”

But even as he says it, he wonders if it’s true. _‘Was there ever a point I could have stopped her?’_ Long years past, perhaps. If he’d been able to stop their father marrying her to Robert Baratheon. _‘There would always have been a husband, though, and she would always have hated him. She thought she loved Rhaegar Targaryen, but she would have loathed him, too, in time.’_ Rhaegar’s honor, Rhaegar’s gentle heart, they would have wearied her. _‘Maybe she would have asked me to kill him for her.’_

He has never rejoiced in bloodshed and vengeance the way Cersei does. But he was always content to let her have it, if it brought her pleasure. _‘You knew what she was, and you loved her anyway.’_ Tyrion had been completely right. He had loved her, as though that was enough to overrule her sins, as though that excused all he did in her name.

He wasn’t blind to her faults. The truth, he must acknowledge, is that Jaime had simply never _cared_ what harm she did, what chaos she caused. What else was there to care about, besides her? After Aerys stripped away his chances of earning glory and renown in battle, what was there to hope for? After he killed Aerys, what chance of recovery was there? After he learned to go away inside when witnessing horrors and to harden himself to the judgment of others, what point would there be in risking caring about anything else, ever again? So much easier, to whittle the world down to what he could encompass with his two arms

“If you’d ever gotten in her way,” Arya says, “she’d have killed you, too.”

“Never,” Jaime replies, swiftly. “She loves her family too much.” But swift on the heels of that thought, another -- a conversation, years’ past: _‘“Tyrion is your family.” “He's not.” “You don't get to choose.”’_

Strange, to remember what she said about Tyrion, then -- “ _A disease doesn't decide to kill you. All the same, you cut it out before it does.”_ \-- and to remember, too, what Olenna Tyrell, just before merrily drinking poison, said to him about _Cersei_ \-- _“She's a disease. I regret my role in spreading it. You will, too.”_

Jaime’s never thought regret a very useful emotion. What’s done is done, and no amount of regret changes it, so what’s the point? You can’t un-spill ink, or blood, or tears.

“Sansa says she loves her family only as much as they reflect her idea of herself back at her, golden and glorious.” Arya shakes her head. “That’s not real love.”

Jaime can hear the pride in her voice; no doubt she’s thinking of the fierce bonds of the wolf pack, how the Starks stand by each other even when so much has gone mad all around them. She seems more Ned Stark’s daughter in this moment, and less a steel blade made flesh.

It takes him a moment to process _what_ she says, though. _‘Cersei hated it when I came back less a hand and with short hair. She hates it when I grow a beard. She hates it when I don’t look like her mirror image.’_ And then, another thought, in Bronn’s voice: _‘“Two tall blond toffs. Must be like looking in a mirror.”’_

“You could never have stopped her,” Arya says. “And you’re not going to save her.”

_‘You're a good man and you can't save her. You don't need to die with her.’_

Jaime winces. He needs the past to stop its bell-like echoes in his head so he can focus on the present. And he needs Ned Stark’s daughter to stop needling him. “You don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She can’t, because Jaime still doesn’t know himself. Maybe he can do what Queen Daenerys’s armies couldn’t, and convince her she’s lost. Maybe he can knock her out and drag her up north to face Sansa’s justice. Battle plans are only ever that, _plans_. He’s led an army enough times to know how quickly they can go awry, how fast you have to think of something else.

“Anyway,” he snaps out, his voice growing heated, “I’m not sure what makes you such an expert in these matters, in your advanced years. I _heard_ \--” And now to summon the old mockery to his voice, the old Jaime, the one who didn’t give a damn who he hurt or how he hurt them, so long as he scored the point. “--that you left a broken heart in your wake back at Winterfell.” There’d been gossip within those stone walls, enough to reach even a Lannister’s ears, and Jaime wasn’t certain it hadn’t started with Lady Sansa. “Turned down your upjumped blacksmith so that you could do what, precisely? Oh. That’s right. Charge off down south to deal with a problem in the way you saw fit, without consulting anyone.”

She doesn’t give much away, but her eyelids flicker, and her gaze drops briefly to the snow. Jaime kicks at the damp earth his earlier scuffing exposed.

Her voice is much less strident when she speaks again. “The lies we tell ourselves are the worst ones.”

 

*

 

The tunnels take longer to navigate than they had hoped. There have been cave-ins, blocking several of the passages. Some were caused by instability after the destruction of the Great Sept of Baelor. Others look more deliberate. They’ve fallen in since Jaime was last here, listening to Tyrion tell him why he should accept a parley with the Dragon Queen. _‘What is Cersei playing at?’_

They have to double back and try alternate routes more than once. Soon Clegane is grumbling, arguing that they should have found a different way in. Arya snarls back at him, insisting that the tunnels are extensive enough, they’ll find a way in. Jaime tunes out their bickering--

\--and in doing so, hears something else.

Footsteps, hurried ones, coming up behind them.

He scrapes to a halt and sidesteps towards the wall. He doesn’t have to say anything. Ayra notices first, then Clegane. Hearing the footsteps, they too take up defensive positions. Jaime edges himself to the far side of a column and slowly removes his sword from its sheath. Clegane does the same, and Arya’s palmed her dagger. She’s also closed the shutter on the one lantern they brought with them.

The footsteps draw closer. Just two people, Jaime thinks. Guards, probably. It’s almost surprising they haven’t run into any sooner than this. Cersei knows about the tunnels. _‘Maybe she thinks having the Iron Fleet off-shore is protection enough.’_

Closer, closer. There’s a glowing light, now, radiating from their torch

Jaime whirls around the side of the column, sword out, and finds himself staring into a pair of startled blue eyes.

 

*

 

“Don’t kill us!” Podrick shouts as Arya leaps out in front of him. They both manage to crash to a halt before getting impaled.

Brienne’s sword is out as soon as she sees movement — and then she’s staring down green eyes over her blade’s twin. _‘I should have known. Of course. Of course it works out like this.’_

They had caught up to the army the previous day. Jon Snow was preparing to attack, now that the storms had stopped. He hadn’t seen his sister -- but Davos Seaworth overheard the question, and had pointed Brienne towards the tunnels. “Too small to march an army through,” he’d said, “but a slip of a girl, alone, could get through easy.” And Brienne has seen how swift and silent Arya Stark can move. It seemed the most sensible approach.

Only, she isn’t alone.

“Some fucking secret these tunnels are!” Sandor Clegane barks at Arya. “Is there any piss-ant in the Seven Kingdoms who _doesn’t_ know about them?”

Arya and Clegane are arguing, and Podrick’s trying to explain, but Brienne hardly hears them. Her heart is pounding far harder than she’d ever admit. Half of her wants to belt Jaime across the face with a gauntleted fist. The other half wants — Another thought to slam down on.

“What are you doing here, Brienne?” Jaime hisses, irritably sheathing his sword, and how dare he, how _dare_ he sound aggravated with _her_? “You’re supposed to be in Winterfell.”

“I don’t believe you get to say where I’m supposed to be, Ser Jaime,” she snaps, without lowering Oathkeeper. “I am sworn to the Stark daughters, and Lady Sansa sent me in search of her sister.” As her initial shock fades, her brow furrows. “What are _you_ doing here?” Whatever she expected, it wasn’t finding him skulking through the undercity in the company of Arya Stark and the Hound.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then his eyes drop down and to the left. “I don’t know.”

“Lie.” This, sudden and from Arya, breaking away from her own conversation.

Jaime shoots a glare at her. “I might be strangling your little murder-minded protectee if she’s not careful.”

Arya smirks, evidently unimpressed with the threat. “Like to see you try.”

Brienne finally lowers Oathkeeper, though she does not yet sheath the magnificent sword. Her left hand grabs Jaime’s shoulder and gives him a good shake. “Explain yourself.”

“I told y—“ But the words seem to stick in his throat, and his gaze, improbably, flicks back over to Arya. “The lies we tell ourselves, girl?”

Brienne looks between Jaime and Arya, wondering what has passed between them. Whatever it was, she realizes, Arya hasn’t killed him. _‘Surely if she knew what he intends… She wants to kill Cersei, and if she knew he’s going to protect her, she’d have left him dead in a ditch somewhere.’_ The thought alone curdles in Brienne’s veins. _‘So why is she here, alongside him?’_

She gives Jaime another rough shove. “Explain,” she demands again, choking back any weakness threatening to enter her voice. _‘Explain why you left,’_ she wants to say. _‘Explain how you could leave me like that, explain how my words meant nothing to you.’_

A ragged sigh tears out of Jaime, and he sags slightly. “I _was_ telling the truth. I have to find Cersei.” Brienne’s gut clenches horribly, and she adjusts her grip on Oathkeeper — but she can still see Arya out of the corner of her eye, quite calm. “Before she does something that gets this whole city set ablaze. If I can prevent that—“

“You really think Queen Daenerys would torch all of King’s Landing just to get to Cersei?”

“I don’t know!” Jaime snaps. “I don’t know this Dragon Queen well. She doesn’t have her father’s obvious madness, I’ll grant you that, but I _don’t know her.”_ Another sigh. “I do know Cersei. And Cersei already used wildfire to escape justice once.”

That reminder sets a cold chill in the air. “You think she’d be mad enough to—“ Clegane seems unwilling to finish the thought, and for the first time, his head looks back the way they came, like he’s thinking of running.

Jaime doesn’t answer. “If I can stop this damn city going up, I will.”

“You did before,” Brienne says, in almost a whisper. Their eyes meet, and now Brienne can see the horror written in Jaime’s features. _‘He knows what he might have to do. Turn Queenslayer, Kinslayer, to again save those who would despise him for the act.’_

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” she says, lowering her voice, though she’s fairly certain Podrick, Arya, and Clegane can still hear. Echoey tunnels are not ideal for private conversations. “If you had just _said_ \--”

“You were _safe_ in Winterfell.” Agony cracks his voice. “You think I wanted you _here_ , where she  might-- in a city that might--” His head wags slightly, and the fathomless sorrow in his eyes spurs a horrible ache in Brienne’s heart. “You were _safe_.”

A thousand thoughts and feelings swarm Brienne’s mind, but the only words she can form are: “You idiot.” He blinks, startled. “You utter idiot.” And she drags him into a kiss.

For a moment, his mouth is still beneath hers, and she starts to pull back, wondering if she’s drawn utterly the wrong conclusion -- but then he grasps at her, hungry and desperate. It’s awkward and hardly intimate, the two of them in their armor, but Brienne feels like she could weep with relief.

Jaime tears himself from her with a gasp. “Brienne,” he murmurs, “I should never have--”

“For fuck’s sake!” Clegane, evidently out of patience. “If you two fuckers could--”

But Podrick interjects. “Let them have a--”

“Look, you little twat, don’t you start--”

There’s not enough time for all the words Brienne wants to say. She wants to reassure Jaime that whatever happens, whatever they have to do, he’s not a monster, not like Cersei is. She wants to help him fit those broken edges of his soul back together. She wants to tell him he his more than what that evil bitch made of him. But there’s no time for that, not now, so she steps back, squaring her shoulders as she faces the others.

“Cersei has to be stopped,” Brienne says. She looks at Arya and the Hound. “I assume your goal is the same?”

“She must be stopped,” Arya echoes, “though Ser Jaime and I may disagree on how.”

Clegane is less artful. “Fuck the bitch,” he says. “I’ve got my own score to settle.”

“We should take her alive, if we can.” Jaime’s eyes are downcast, his voice hollow. “She may not— She may not allow us to. But if we can--”

“Assuming you dumb cunts can get to her in the first place,” Clegane says.

“Not worried about that,” Arya says, touching the hilt of her rapier. Her voice hardens. “But I _will_ kill her if you two don’t.”

She’s a strange, severe little thing, and Brienne believes her. She also believes Jaime will try everything he can to keep Cersei alive, and the last thing she needs is Arya and Jaime fighting each other. “Ser Jaime’s idea has merit,” she says, slowly. “Killing Cersei in private, hidden away from the battle and the people, would rob a great many people of their chance to witness her downfall.”

“She deserves death.” Arya’s taken an aggressive posture.

“And you might well be allowed to serve as executioner,” Brienne replies, her voice equally hard, “but justice must be _seen_ to be done.” Arya’s expression does not change. “Would you prefer she be made a martyr?” Brienne presses. “They could make a song of that as easily as they can of dragon queens, or of a young girl defeating the Night King with her needle.”

“It wasn’t Needle that stabbed--”

“Makes a better song, though,” Jaime agrees, and Podrick nods.

“And the brave death of a lioness, cornered in her den by ravening wolves, could make one, too,” Brienne says. “But if she is put to public trial and sentenced according to just laws, then no one will be able to pity her. Her crimes will be out in the open. Queen Daenerys will be seen to dispense justice. And you may well still get to whet your blade on Cersei Lannister’s bones.” She feels Jaime tense beside her, and chooses to ignore it. Brienne takes a step towards Arya. “Don’t you think your sister would like the chance to testify against her? To confront Cersei with her many crimes, to her face? Then _that_ is what history will remember of her, not that she died in some bold last stand.”

Arya is still and unblinking for a long moment, as though playing out that scene in her mind. “Ser Brienne,” she asks, “think you in your soul that this would be the best course?”

“As surely as I have a thought or a soul, my lady,” Brienne answers, without hesitation. It’s a surprise to her. She wants Cersei dead, too. But she doesn’t want Jaime to have to do it, doesn’t want to find out what further wreckage that might cause in his psyche. And it _will_ be better if Queen Daenerys’s reign begins with justice, not vengeance.

Arya Stark stares searchingly into Brienne’s eyes. Then her lips quirk up at one end. “Truth.” Her hand falls away from her pommel. “We’ll _try_ that. But I will still slit her throat before I let her escape.”

Brienne looks back to Jaime. He doesn’t nod, but nor does he argue. “Let’s go, then. There must still be an open passage to the Keep somewhere.”

 

*


	4. Coming for Your Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice finds Cersei Lannister; Jaime and Brienne must find peace with that, somehow.  
> \--  
>  _What fools you both are. I tried to make a world for the man that you are, Jaime. We could have ruled Westeros together, and damned anyone who didn’t like it. I asked only for you to be loyal and strong, and you failed me on both counts. Why was that too much to ask, after all I’d given you?”_  
>  _Jaime’s jaw works. He recognizes her appeal, can see what strings she’s trying to tug on, the back-and-forth of shame and temptation, punishment and promise. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Brienne adjust her grip on Oathkeeper, can almost feel her tensing. Cersei’s gaze is predatory, alert for any vulnerability she can pounce on. ‘This has gone on too long,’ he thinks, and he isn’t sure if he means this conversation or their whole damned interwoven life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not how things will end, either in the show or the books. I'm sure of that. It's not ~dramatic enough. But I think it's fitting. I think it's what Cersei deserves. It's certainly how _I_ would write it. This is what satisfies _me_.
> 
> Prayer circle for tonight, y'all.

_Say after me:_

_It’s no better to be safe than sorry_

 

*

 

At last, they find their way to an unblocked staircase -- and what they discover in it is far worse than tumbled bricks and beams.

Clay pots. Hundreds of them, lining the tower.

None of them dare open one to see what’s inside it. No one needs the confirmation. Jaime’s face is a portrait of agony. _‘He didn’t want to be right,’_ Brienne thinks.

“Podrick,” she says, “you need to go back.”

“What?” Pod exclaims. “No, ser, I have to stay with--”

“Someone needs to warn the army,” she says. “Quickly. Who knows how many of these things Cersei has planted, or where. Maybe they’re just here in the keep, but they could be all over the city. One wrong blast from Drogon -- one flaming arrow in the wrong place --”

Podrick’s face blanches in the torchlight. “If you command it, ser--”

“I do.” Brienne clasps his shoulder. “I’ll find you after,” she says, with a certainty she does not feel. “Go quick. Find Lord Jon, or Ser Davos. They may not wait til dawn to attack.”

Though clearly unhappy about it, Podrick obeys. Brienne watches as his torch disappears back down the tunnels.

 

*

 

They let Arya emerge first, and she grabs the first servant she finds by his hair, pressing her blade to his throat. “Where’s Cersei Lannister?” she demands, her voice cool and even. “Say it quick and true, and maybe you live.”

“Throne room!” the servant gasps, demonstrating a far greater sense of self-preservation than loyalty. Having seen how Cersei treats her servants, Jaime can hardly blame him. “Well-guarded.”

“Not worried,” Arya says, releasing him. In the same moment, Clegane steps out from the passage and clubs the man over the head.

It occurs to Jaime, as they move toward the throne room, that they are four fighters against the gods know how many guards. _‘If we are luckier than we have any right to be, she’ll have the Golden Company and most of the city guard out in the streets.’_

They are not lucky enough not to have to fight their way to the throne room. Clegane cuts through men like a scythe through wheat, while little Arya bobs and weaves and jabs holes in guards almost before they know she’s there. Jaime and Brienne stick close together, their fighting styles so similar, so complementary.

There are a dozen men standing in front of the doors to the throne room, with the Mountain as a massive centerpiece in their midst. Clegane engages his brother directly, with a ferocious roar. Some of the guards go for Clegane in turn, trying to distract him, while the others square off against Jaime, Brienne, and Arya.

Jaime allows himself to drift into the flow of fighting, which has always come so naturally to him. What matter that he only has one hand now? He is still Jaime Lannister, and he has Brienne of Tarth at his back. They fight as they did at Winterfell, nearly back-to-back, defending each others’ blind spots. _‘I thought swordfighting was a song when I was young,’_ Jaime thinks. _‘I had no idea. Not til fighting with her.’_

Soon there are a dozen bodies on the floor, while the Mountain and the Hound rage on, oblivious to all else. “Go on,” Arya says, tossing her blade from hand to hand. She’s eyeing the Mountain, her quick eyes searching for weak points. “I’ll be along.”

Jaime and Brienne look at each other, then both shoulder open the doors to the throne room.

The room is bathed in an eerie bluish light. The sky outside is turning towards dawn, though the sun has not yet crested the horizon. And there is Cersei, seated on the Iron Throne, as painfully beautiful as ever. She rises as Jaime and Brienne approach, twin swords still clenched at the ready. Gold of hair and green of eye, with a black gown expertly tailored over her slender form.

Jaime blinks.

Her _slender_ form.

His jaw sets so hard that, for a moment, he cannot speak, cannot even think.

“Cersei Lannister,” Brienne says, her voice as bold as ever, “in the name of Queen Daenerys, the First of Her Name, I am placing you under arrest--”

But Cersei pays her no attention. Her eyes are locked on Jaime, her expression inscrutable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her decidedly unswollen stomach.

“Was it ever true?” he finally manages to ask.

“Maybe,” Cersei says, showing no sign of fear. “I wanted it to be. I truly did.” She turns aside, walking towards the side of the room. Brienne moves to intercept her, but halts when Jaime holds up a hand. Instead she matches Cersei’s pace, flanking her. “But by the time it became apparent there would be no child,” Cersei continues, “you had _left_.” And there’s the first flash of emotion -- savage emotion, a bite in her tone that promises retribution. “I warned you then. No one leaves me.”

“It was the right thing to do,” he grinds out.

“And then you have the nerve to return, assisting my enemies -- and in such company.” Her eyes dart to Brienne for the first time, and Jaime feels a swell of protective furor. “But then you always have had a soft spot for freaks.” The word has a vicious hiss to it. Brienne doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as blink. “I should have known you would turn on me eventually back when you freed Tyrion. After all I did for us, for our family, to keep us safe and together--”

“Stop.” He says it quietly, neither a command nor a plea.

She does not. “I tried so hard, Jaime.” Her voice has the hint of a sob in it -- not a real cry, of course, nothing so genuine nor so vulnerable. Just enough to suggest tears without actually bringing them. “And I kept believing in you, even when you failed me, so many times.”

His hand is shaking. “You believed in me enough to send Bronn to kill me.”

“No one,” she states, cold and simple, “leaves me.” Cersei continues strolling unconcernedly. Jaime advances on her, and Brienne continues to flank. “It doesn’t have to end like this, you know.”

“No,” Brienne says, “it doesn’t. Come with us quietly, and you will face the queen’s justice.”

“ _I_ am the queen,” Cersei snarls, suddenly tense and fierce. “And I know precisely what justice that silver-haired bitch will be prepared to offer.” A cruel smile twists those lovely painted lips. “I decline.” She arches an eyebrow. “So will you kill me, Maid of Tarth?” Green eyes slide between Brienne and Jaime. “If such a title is even appropriate any longer.” She says it with palpable revulsion, and Jaime wonders if it is more intended to insult Brienne, or if Cersei genuinely feels such disgust at the idea that he would lay with anyone besides her.

“Leave her be,” Jaime says. “Your quarrel is with me.”

“It certainly is.” Her glare feels like an arrow. “Do you think they will thank you for this? You’re pathetic. Still hoping for redemption? When the world will never see you as anything but what you are: a lion with a bloody coat.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do.” Again, her gaze turns, venom-bright, to Brienne. “Why else align yourself with _her_? But if you’re hoping her honor will rub off on you, you’re going to be grievously disappointed. You’ll drag her down; she can’t lift you up.”

“I know,” Jaime says, in the same instant that Brienne protests, “He doesn’t need me to.”

Cersei laughs, an absurd peal in this dark, fraught room. “What fools you both are. I _tried_ to make a world for the man that you _are_ , Jaime. We could have ruled Westeros together, and damned anyone who didn’t like it. I asked only for you to be loyal and strong, and you failed me on both counts. Why was that too much to ask, after all I’d given you?”

Jaime’s jaw works. He recognizes her appeal, can see what strings she’s trying to tug on, the back-and-forth of shame and temptation, punishment and promise. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Brienne adjust her grip on Oathkeeper, can almost feel her tensing. Cersei’s gaze is predatory, alert for any vulnerability she can pounce on. _‘This has gone on too long,’_ he thinks, and he isn’t sure if he means this conversation or their whole damned interwoven life.

Jaime moves closer to her. “Come quietly, Cersei,” he says, “and I will do what I can to keep you alive.”

“I told you,” Cersei replies. “I decline.”

Cersei backs up towards a window -- a window which Jaime suddenly realizes is _open_ , despite the frigid air outside, and for a heart-clenching moment, Jaime thinks she’s going to jump. _‘Just like Tommen.’_ He reaches a hand out for her. “Cersei, you don’t need to--”

But her hand has drifted just inside the front of her gown, and she’s drawing something out. A red square of fabric — blood red, Lannister red.

“She’s signaling someone!” Brienne shouts, launching herself at Cersei. Jaime lunges, too, dropping his sword as Cersei flings her arm toward the window.

Brienne tackles Cersei, taking her to the floor in a crash of armor. Cersei cries out in pain. Jaime’s fingers snatch for the fabric and close around air.

For a horrible, gutting heartbeat, despair floods in. Then he sees it: the fabric, clinging to the sandstone brick — on the _inside_ of the window.

Cersei missed.

With a half-strangled exhalation, Jaime takes up the crimson square and turns away from the window. For a moment, they all remain silent, waiting to see if the world explodes around them, if anyone saw her wave the flag before it fell.

Nothing happens.

Grunting in aggravation, Brienne hauls Cersei to her feet. Her hands are locked fast around Cersei’s wrists, but Cersei has gone strangely pliant. Her face is slack, still looking at the window, as though she cannot conceive that her final ploy failed.

“Hold her,” Brienne says, shoving Cersei against the wall and grabbing the fabric from Jaime’s hand. Jaime does, placing his one good hand around Cersei’s throat.

It would be easy, so easy, to squeeze.

It would be impossible.

 

*

 

Brienne tries not to look at them as she tears the crimson fabric into strips, then knots those strips tightly together. Whatever is passing between them, it is, well, _between_ them. _‘I will never fully understand,’_ she thinks. _‘I wonder if even he will.’_

Brienne gently takes Jaime’s hand off of Cersei’s throat, then turns Cersei around so that she can bind the deposed queen’s hands behind her back. The bindings tightening around her wrists seems to shake Cersei out of her stupor. When Brienne spins her back around, her green eyes find Jaime again.

“Jaime,” Cersei says, and her voice is so soft, bereft of all the imperious command and smug superiority. “Jaime, please, don’t let this happen. I forgive you, I forgive you everything. You can’t let her take me to the Targaryen usurper. Take me away from here. We can go away, just you and I, we can go to Braavos or Pentos or anywhere. I forgive you, my love, I forgive you all.”

“You forgive me?” He sounds incredulous. His hand reaches towards Cersei, and for a horrible moment, Brienne thinks his sister’s claws have somehow found another hold -- but then he grabs her chin, brutally hard. “ _You_ forgive _me_?” His jaw is tight, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Cersei’s trembling, now; Brienne can feel her whole body shaking. “Jaime, please.”

He drops his hand. “I want you to know,” he says, with careful precision, “just how thoroughly you have lost.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

Cersei grows frantic, and Brienne has to grip her arms tightly. “Jaime!” she cries, sounding truly panicked now. “Jaime, _no_!” But he stalks down the long throne room, without turning back to look at her. Brienne gives Cersei a shove to try and get her moving -- and Cersei aims a kick at Brienne’s leg. But Brienne, of course, is wearing greaves, and she hardly feels it.

Arya Stark appears at the far end of the throne room, and she breaks into a quick trot. Jaime doesn’t look at her, either, as they pass. As she comes near, Brienne sees that she’s covered in blood. Some of it her own, perhaps -- but not much. “Need a hand?” she asks.

Brienne almost smiles. Even Cersei has the height advantage over this petite killer. “I think I can handle her, but I welcome your flanking measures.”

“You sure?” Arya says. “If I slit her ankle tendons, she’d be easier to drag.”

“You little wolf bitch--” Cersei begins to snarl.

Brienne slaps her in the back of the head -- not _too_ hard, but Brienne is wearing a gauntlet, and it’s enough to stun Cersei’s tongue into silence.

Arya snickers, and from somewhere produces a bloody strip of fabric. She grabs Cersei’s elbow so that Brienne can take it from her, shove it in Cersei’s mouth, and tie the ends around the back of her head.

There’s a wicked light in the young woman’s eyes, half-holy, half-fiendish, as she grins up at Cersei. “You were right, Ser Brienne,” she says. “This _is_ satisfying. And I believe Sansa is going to enjoy seeing her like this quite a bit.”

 

*

 

The trial of Cersei Lannister takes three days.

Seven sit in judgment: Queen Daenerys herself, at the center of a long table, bearing a red gash along her jawline, another at her shoulder: wounds taken during the Battle for King’s Landing, for though Podrick's warning about wildfire traps got through, Cersei’s capture could not be confirmed before the fight was enjoined. She will have scars. To her right sit Davos Seaworth, considered an even-tempered man, and a fitting representative of the people; the new Prince of Dorne, a handsome young Martell cousin called Quentyn; and Yara Greyjoy, now Queen of the Iron Islands in her own right. On her left are Samwell Tarly, looking uncomfortable to have so many eyes focused on him; Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, looking nearly as unnerved as Tarly; and a slender crannogwoman called Meera Reed, whose eyes are more often on Brandon Stark than on Cersei or the witnesses, as though looking to him for confirmation.

There are not as many witnesses left living as there might have been. So many of Cersei’s accomplices are dead, many by her own hands or at her command. But there are enough.

Perhaps most damning, Qyburn turns on her in exchange for as-yet undetermined leniency in his own sentence. Queen Daenerys has not yet decided if it will be imprisonment or exile, but his head will stay on his shoulders, and apparently that is enough for him to speak to all of Cersei’s myriad evils, including the plot to destroy King’s Landing rather than allow it to be taken. He was the man awaiting Cersei’s signal.

Others speak, too: servants and guards and soldiers who witnessed the erstwhile-queen’s cruelties. The ravaged body of Septa Unella was found in the black cells, and there were those who knew how it got there. So too were the corpses of Tyene Sand, long-since dead of poison, and her mother Ellaria, who seems to have bashed her own brains out against the wall of her cell. Their murders are added to Cersei’s tally. And there are lesser crimes: petty cruelties, thefts, misappropriation of funds. Even the Iron Bank sends a representative, to speak what they know of her plans and methods.

Sansa Stark gives the most eloquently ringing condemnation. She speaks both of the crimes she witnessed and those she heard of from Petyr Baelish, and at last the whole realm knows who was responsible for nearly a decade’s worth of strife. Her words land on Cersei like a curse, and she returns with head held high to sit between her sister Arya and her brother -- no, her _cousin_ Jon, for that news is out as well, though he has abdicated all claims to the throne and means, so he says, to travel as far north as North goes.

Two voices are conspicuously absent: the Lannister brothers. Tyrion, as the Queen’s Hand, has recused himself from the proceedings, so that no one could accuse him of favoritism in either direction. Daenerys has had, in the name of justice, to arrange a pardon for his own crimes, after all, and feels it best not to draw too much attention to that.

As for Jaime Lannister, the queen heard his testimony in private, on the advice of Sansa Stark and at the request of Brienne of Tarth. He is still no favorite among the people, his own complicity still too suspect, Sansa argued; he is a man in pain, Brienne pleaded, who has done the realm greater service than it knows, and should be spared the agony of bearing public witness. So he sat alone with Daenerys Stormborn, in a small and unassuming chamber of the Red Keep, and what passed between them, neither reports.

But he is present for all three days of the trial. He sits next to Brienne of Tarth, his face as though carved of stone.

“Have you anything to say in your defense?” Queen Daenerys asks, after Sansa has had her say.

Cersei lifts her chin, still the proud lioness, still defiant, even in chains. “Only this,” she says, voice ringing. “All I did, I did for my family. And you would have done the same.”

“No,” Daenerys replies, violet eyes steady. “I did not, and I would not. If you do not understand that, then that is all I need to know.”

 

*

 

It does not take the seven judges long to deliberate.

“There can be only one sentence for your crimes,” Daenerys says when they return. The other six sit back down, but Daenerys stands a short distance in front of Cersei. “Particularly since you demonstrate no remorse. You will die, Cersei Lannister.” She glances over the assembly, her eyes pausing on Arya Stark, whose hand is already on the hilt of her dagger. “But you have been a queen thrice-over. An illegitimate queen, in every case: wife of a usurper, mother of bastards, and a false claimant in your own right. We are willing, however, to show some degree of mercy to the defeated. We will allow you to choose the method. We offer you your choice: poison, the blade, or the flame.” A slight widening of her eyes gives away which would be the queen’s preference.

A slow, terrible smile crawls over Cersei’s face. She lifts her eyes from her lap and looks, not at Daenerys, but at her brother. “I would die by the sword of Jaime Lannister.”

“We said you could choose your method,” Daenerys says, her voice growing swiftly heated in a way that serves as a reminder: she is the blood of the dragon, “not your executioner.”

“Nonetheless,” Cersei replies, “I have named my desire, if Daenerys Stormborn wishes to show _mercy_.”

One final cruelty, Brienne realizes. She was never going to die without striking a final blow, and she aimed it well.

Queen Daenerys seems to be barely suppressing an eyeroll. She turns back to the other judges, as though to seek counsel, when Jaime Lannister stands up.

Brienne sucks in a breath. “Jaime--” she whispers.

He glances down at her and gives only a faint nod before drawing Widow’s Wail from its scabbard. The whole assembly seems to hold its breath. “Your Grace,” he says to Daenerys, “if you have no objection, then I see no reason why Cersei Lannister should not die as she requests, by this blade.”

Daenerys’s eyebrows arch in surprise, but she nods her acquiescence and turns back to Cersei. “If you have any last words,” she drawls, with acid in her voice, “now would be the time.”

“You are no true queen,” Cersei snaps, “and you will die as you have lived: in fire and blood.” Daenerys’s uninjured shoulder moves in a slight, unconcerned shrug. Then Cersei turns her eyes to Jaime. “No one leaves me, beloved brother, and through this, I will be with you forever.”

Jaime begins to walk -- but he moves past Cersei, towards the Starks on the other side of the hall. He flips Widow’s Wail in his hand and offers it, hilt-first, to Arya Stark.

“What?” Cersei exclaims. “No! That’s not--”

But that is all she has the chance to say. Arya Stark has moved, quick as a snake, and in one smooth motion, impaled Cersei Lannister through the heart.

It’s so fast that Brienne misses it entirely, focused as she is on Jaime’s face. No one else present, she’s sure, can read what she sees there: a twitch of pain, but it’s the same expression as when he complains of sensation from his missing hand. A phantom pain, an echo of something long gone. And then, almost imperceptibly, she sees him relax.

Arya Stark turns and bows to the queen -- a saucy little bow, and Daenerys’s lips quirk just a touch. She reaches inside her sleeve and pulls out a square of white linen. From her seat, Brienne can make out a black border and the Targaryen emblem, embroidered in red. This Daenerys hands to Arya, who cleans off the blade. The blood-stained fabric she returns to Daenerys; the blade, to Jaime as he crosses the hall without looking at the lifeless body of his sister, his lover, his tormentor. He sheathes it, sits beside Brienne, and takes her hand, interlacing her fingers with his. He’s shaking, and trying not to show it.

Two of the queens’ warriors swiftly remove the body. Brienne wonders what will be done with it. Tyrion, no doubt, will decide; it would be too cruel to ask that, too, of Jaime.

“Let this be the end of it,” Daenerys says, her voice as clear as a bell as she holds the handkerchief in the air. “This country has known too much bloodshed. Now we must find renewal.” She crumples the fabric into her palm, bringing her arm to her side. A smile transforms her face, beatific and hopeful despite the wound along her jaw still testifying to the pains of the past. “I have had word this very morning from the Citadel. Spring is on its way.”

 

*

 

When Jaime and Brienne return to their quarters that night, he falls asleep almost immediately, exhausted by the sheer emotional effort that the day has taken.

He wakes in the middle of the night and reaches, instinctively, for Brienne -- who is there, blessedly there, stretched out beside him. She wakes at his touch, takes his face between her hands, and kisses him. Such tenderness, from such a stalwart soul. It opens the floodgates, and Jaime finds himself sobbing into her arms. She holds him close -- no mockery, no demands that he master himself. Just patience and her quiet, reassuring strength.

“I cannot speak of it now,” he says, when he finally finds his voice.

“You don’t have to,” she assures him, threading her finger through his hair. “Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

“Someday,” he says. “Someday, I will need to. But I don’t know when.”

They lay together in silence a while longer, then he pushes himself up to look in her eyes.

“I don’t know what the future holds, for either of us,” he says. He’s thinking of his brother, and of the Dragon Queen, and of Brienne’s oath to the Lady of Winterfell, and of Seven Kingdoms finding a new balance. He thinks of the Isle of Tarth, with its sapphire waters. He thinks of a long road, going on and on without end. “But I know I love you, Brienne. And I know I want to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you.”

Brienne’s hand strokes his cheek, and then she gives it a light tap, an almost playful admonishment. “And I hope, you blessed fool, that it will not take me nearly that long to convince you that you already are.”

 

*

 

_I'll be coming for your love, okay?_


End file.
